Soon the confused shuffling of feet settled to a measured cadence; the orchestra blared and wailed, the snare drum, rolling at exact intervals, the cornet marking the time.

It was half-past eight o'clock.
Annixter drew a long breath: "Good," he muttered, "the thing is under way at last." Singularly enough, Osterman also refused to dance.

The week before he had returned from Los Angeles, bursting with the importance of his mission.

He had been successful.

He had Disbrow "in his pocket." He was impatient to pose before the others of the committee as a skilful political agent, a manipulator.